When Strangers Marry (16 page)

M
ax awakened to the sensation of invisible fiends pounding on his head with mallets. He squinted his eyes open and jerked in painful surprise as a ray of sunshine slanted across his throbbing eyeballs. Cursing in French and English, he rolled to his stomach and rooted beneath his pillow in violent denial of morning.

“
Mon mari
.” He heard Lysette’s amused but sympathetic voice. Her gentle hand brushed over his naked back. “Tell me how I can help. What is your usual cure for…what do the Americans call it?…pickling yourself? Will you take some coffee? Water? Willow-bark tea?”

Max’s stomach roiled at the notion of swallowing anything. “
Dieu, non
. Just let me—” He broke off as the touch of her hand recalled memories of the night before. Many of the details were lost in a
liquor-soaked fog, but he did remember seeing her when he had arrived home…she had helped him to remove his clothes…and sometime after that, he had…”

Throwing the pillow aside, Max sat bolt upright, ignoring the agony that stabbed through his head. “Lysette,” he croaked. She sat beside him on the bed, dressed in a white robe with ruffles down the front, her hair hanging in a braid and tied with a strip of lace. Max would have thought she looked angelic…except that no angel had kiss-swollen lips and whisker burns all over her throat.

“Relax,
ma cher
,” she told him with a smile. “There is no need to look so alarmed.”

“Last night…” he said unsteadily, his insides turning cold and leaden. “I was with you. I don’t remember all of it, but I know that we…”

“Yes, we did.”

The information shamed and appalled Max. No gentleman would ever take his wife when he was intoxicated…much less a virginal wife, who would have required gentleness and self-restraint and skill. He had taken her innocence while he was drunk. The realization was overwhelming. He must have hurt her. Dear God, she would never let him near her again, and he wouldn’t blame her. “Lysette…” He began to reach for her, then snatched his hands back. “Did I force myself on you?” he asked hoarsely.

Her eyes widened with surprise. “No. Of course you didn’t.”

“Did I hurt you? Was I rough?”

Her sudden laugh bewildered him. “Don’t you remember what happened,
mon mari
? You didn’t seem
that
much the worse for wear.”

“I remember
my
part of it. But I don’t remember yours.”

Smiling, Lysette leaned forward and touched his lower lip with her fingertip. “I’ll tell you, then. You tortured me,
ma cher
, and made me suffer terribly. And I adored every moment of it.”

“I didn’t take care of you afterward,” Max said in dull horror. “I didn’t bring you water, or a cloth, or…” A thought occurred to him, and he flipped back the sheets, discovering a small streak of blood on the snowy linen. She had bled, and he had done nothing for her. “
Mon Dieu
,” he muttered.

“You did fall asleep quite suddenly after all your exertions,” Lysette admitted with a grin, her fingers trailing over his hair-dusted thigh. “But I didn’t mind taking care of myself. It was hardly a problem,
mon mari
.”

Max did not understand how she could smile after what he had done to her, debauching her in the middle of the night when he’d been staggering drunk. He tunneled his fingers into his rumpled hair, down to his aching scalp. “Lysette,” he said without looking at her, “if you can find some way to forgive me, someday…I swear it will never happen again. I’m certain you don’t believe that now, but I—”

“I will forgive you on one condition,” she said kindly.

“Anything. Anything. Just tell me.”

“My condition is…” She leaned close to him, her lips touching his bristly cheek. “You have to do it again tonight,” she whispered, and left the bed before he could reply.

Gradually realizing that the previous night had not been the catastrophe it could have been, Max leaned back against the headboard. Relief crept through him, and he released a taut sigh.

“A little coffee?” Lysette coaxed. “It might help your head.”

He made a gruff sound of assent. Lysette went to the silver tray on the table by the window and poured steaming liquid into a Sevres porcelain cup. Returning to him with a cup and saucer, she helped to lodge a pillow behind his back before handing him the coffee. “
Alors
,” she said conversationally, “now that we’ve finally slept together, perhaps I will stop finding scraps of red cloth beneath my pillow.”

Max paused in the act of raising the cup to his lips. “Red cloth?” he repeated warily.

“
Oui
. Noeline has been hiding them there to attract
le Miché Agoussou
.”

A reluctant grin tugged at his lips. “The Creole demon of love. Well, you can inform her that he’s visited us with a vengeance.”

Lysette smiled, a blush rising to the freckled crests of her cheeks. “I don’t think there is any need to tell Noeline anything. The entire household seems to be aware of what happened. One of the disadvantages of living with such a big family.”

“Does the lack of privacy bother you?” he asked, having never given it a thought before.

She shrugged. “The house is large enough that I have many places to go when I wish to be alone. And I enjoy your family’s company, although it would be nice to have more women around. I think we should find wives for your brothers.”

“Neither of them sees a need to marry. They live in a well-run house, and they have all the freedom they desire. When they wish for female companionship, there are many women in town willing to accommodate them. Why should either of them want a wife?”

Lysette regarded him with indignation. “What about children?”

Max regarded her sardonically. “It’s likely that after living with the twins, my brothers have received a rather negative impression of the joys of fatherhood.”

“Not all children are like the twins.”

“Thank God for that.”

“Besides, if bachelorhood is so wonderful, why did you marry me?”

Max studied her over the rim of the porcelain cup, admiring the shape of her body beneath the cambric robe. “I think I made that clear last night.”

“Ah.” Lysette stalked over to him, her movements imbued with a new sexual confidence that sent a hum of awareness through him.
God help me
, Max thought wryly. “You married me for my body, then,” Lysette said, leaning close enough that he could see down the front of her gown, from the tips of her breasts to the tiny exuberant red curls between her thighs. Max gulped the rest of his coffee,
but its scalding heat was nothing in comparison to the rising temperature of his blood.

“Exactly,” he said, and she laughed low in her throat.

“Perhaps I married you for yours,
mon mari
.”

“I have no complaint about that,” he said, pulling her toward him for a kiss.

However, they were interrupted by a firm knock at the door. Max watched with disgruntlement as Lysette went to answer it. The intruder was Noeline, bearing a heavy-laden breakfast tray. Frowning, Max pulled the covers higher over his bare chest.

Evidently the situation met with the housekeeper’s approval. Her expression was as serene as usual, but there was satisfaction in her dark eyes as she set the tray down on a small table by the window. “
Bon matin
,” she said placidly. “It’s about time I found madame in here with you, monsieur.”

Lysette sat by the tray and picked up a flaky croissant, biting into it with obvious enjoyment.

“Now,” Noeline continued, “if it pleases God, there will be babies in the house again. It’s been much too long since the twins.” Having known Max since his youth, she readily exercised her freedom to say anything she liked to him, no matter how personal.

“Noeline,” Max said brusquely, “have a bath readied for me right away. I’m going to be late for an appointment in town.”

The housekeeper frowned with displeasure. “You are going out today, monsieur? And leaving a
pretty wife with no babies?” As far as Creoles were concerned, it was a man’s first responsibility to give his wife children. No one in high circles or low would dispute the fact that a new husband should spend every day and night in the effort to impregnate his bride. It was, after all, the entire purpose of the honeymoon.

Max pinned the housekeeper with an ominous stare. “Leave, Noeline.”

“
Oui
, monsieur,” Noeline replied, unruffled, and muttered to herself as she left, “How she’s going to get babies by herself I don’t know….”

“When will you come back?” Lysette asked, drizzling honey onto her croissant.

“Early this afternoon, I expect.”

“I think I’ll go riding around the plantation today,” she said. “There are still parts of it I’ve never seen.”

“Take someone with you.”

“Oh, but there is no need—”

“Yes, there is. If you should have any difficulty—if the horse loses a shoe, or stumbles—I don’t want you to be alone.”

“All right.” Lysette tilted her head back as she popped a honey-sodden morsel of croissant into her mouth. Her enjoyment of the treat aroused him further, and he turned to his side to watch her.

“Lysette,” he said huskily, “bring that honey over here.”

“With a croissant?”

“No, just the honey.”

Lysette’s perplexed gaze met his, and as understanding
dawned, she shook her head decisively. “No, you wicked man.”

“Now,” he insisted, patting the space beside him. “You promised to obey me,
chèrie
. Are you breaking your vows already?”

“I promised no such a thing.”

“Yes, you did. During the wedding.”

“I crossed my fingers during that part.” Seeing his lack of comprehension, she added, “it’s what the Americans do when they don’t mean what they’re saying.”

Max threw back the covers, revealing his naked body, and went to retrieve his giggling wife. Picking her up masterfully, he carried her to the bed, and brought the pot of honey along with them. “Do you know what Creoles do to rebellious wives?” he asked, depositing her on the mattress.

“Am I going to find out?” she asked, her face burnished with brilliant pink.

“Oh, yes,” he murmured, and joined her on the bed.

As Lysette had expected, she was the object of unusual scrutiny when she joined the Vallerands in the morning room after breakfast. Even Alexandre, who was clearly suffering from a bout of heavy drinking and carousing in town the night before, dragged his bloodshot gaze to her face.

“Good morning,” Lysette said cheerfully.

Justin, who lounged in the corner with a sugar-dusted roll, broke the tension with his typical bluntness. “Are we trying to see how she fared the night
with Father? She looks well enough to me.” It was not said in malice; indeed, there was a twinkle in his blue eyes that was impossible to resist. Lysette smiled at him even as the rest of the family reacted with annoyance, demanding that he leave the room. She touched his shoulder as he departed.

“It’s not necessary for you to leave, Justin,” she said.

“I was going to, anyway. Philippe and I have a fencing lesson in town.”

“I hope it goes well for you.”

Justin grinned, raking his fingers through his shaggy black hair. “It always does. I’m the best swordsman in town, after father.
Bon matin, bellemere,”
he said cheerfully, and went in search of his brother. Although Lysette smiled at his youthful bravado, the other Vallerands did not seem to find it so amusing.

“That boy…” Irénée did not finish the complaint, but her irritation was clear.

“Max should have taken a switch to him a long time ago,” Alexandre said grimly, taking a tiny sip of coffee and holding his head as if it were about to fall off. “Now the results of Max’s spoiling are becoming all too obvious.”

“Justin is trying to make himself noticed,” Lysette replied, seating herself beside Irénée. “Philippe earns attention through his good behavior. Naturally the only course left to Justin is to be bad. If we treat him with patience and understanding, I have no doubt that he will improve.” She turned to her mother-in-law, determined to change
the subject. “I thought I might ride around the plantation today.”

“Have Elias accompany you,” Irénée replied. “He is a good boy, quiet and well mannered.”

“Where are you going?” Bernard asked.

She shrugged. “Perhaps toward the east, beyond the cypress grove.”

“There is nothing there to see,” Bernard replied with a frown. “Except for the ruins of the old overseer’s house.”

The group fell oddly silent at the mention of the place. Lysette glanced at Irénée, who had suddenly devoted her attention to stirring more sugar into her coffee. Pondering the reasons for such a strange reaction, Lysette realized that the overseer’s house must be where Corinne had been murdered.

“I should have thought it would have been torn down,” Lysette said.

“It should have been,” Irénée agreed. “Unfortunately, no one on the plantation, or in New Orleans, has been willing to do it. Superstition, you understand.”

Lysette understood. The Creole culture attached great importance to places where murder or death had occurred. Any token of the house—a stick, a chip of brick or molding plaster—carried with it the essence of evil. Such fragments could be used to make a powerful
gris-gris
that would bring death and everlasting grief to a victim. No one would care to bring a curse on himself by desecrating a place riddled with bad spirits.

“Some have foolishly claimed to have seen
ghosts there,” Irénée said. “Even Justin…although I suspect he was merely out to make mischief.”

“None of the slaves will go near the place,” Bernard said. “If you tried to visit it, you wouldn’t get within a hundred feet of it before Elias refused to go any farther.”

It was not long before Lysette discovered that Bernard had been right. Elias, riding a placid mule behind her dappled mare, stopped short when he saw the broken outline of the overseer’s house rising before them. The structure was situated well out of sight of the main house. It was set on the edge of fields that had once been productive, but had been left untouched during the last ten years. The land was overgrown and richly green. Given enough time, the tropical climate would accomplish the destruction of the rickety overseer’s house, which had already decayed from mold, dampness, and insects.